


Soldier Girl

by drladybird



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Mythology/Religion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Awkward Kissing, Child Soldiers, Childbirth, Colonialism, Couch Cuddles, Dissociation, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Height Differences, Jaal vs Roekaar angst, Recreational Drug Use, Terrorism, Xenophilia, Zoe Kennedy critical, martyred underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 06:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17238779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drladybird/pseuds/drladybird
Summary: Sara Ryder used to be an elite Alliance sniper, skilled enough to make her father proud. Shooting kett isn’t so different from shooting pirates.She didn’t sign up to fight the Roekaar. They’re a bunch of scared kids named after a fairy tale. But if they attack her, or if they attack innocents, she’ll do what needs doing.Jaal never imagined he’d have to fight his own kind. But when the Roekaar threaten his alien comrades, if he can’t persuade them to see sense... he can weep and pray for their souls once the fight’s over. Maybe they’ll make better choices in their next life.Sara Ryder’s a twenty-three-year-old soldier with a decent grasp of field medicine. She’s not remotely qualified to deliver a human baby. Unfortunately, everyone else on the scene is even less qualified.Jaal doesn’t even know how human reproduction works. At least he’s not panicking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So the Little Things That Matter mission got a bit more hands on than canon...

Things could be worse! Nothing’s on fire yet!

Old battered snow truck full of Roekaar, ETA five minutes! Shuttle full of kett, ETA shortly after! The Nomad could outrun the old truck but not the kett shuttle, and Kennedy’s shuttle won’t take off!

Zoe Jean Kennedy, current contender for the contested title of Heleus Cluster’s Biggest Moron, quits whatever she was doing with the controls and stares at me white-faced. “The drive core’s iced over! Can’t get it thawed fast enough! You’re not the Human Pathfinder Team!”

_Why_ did I get those cryo-gene mods to turn my hair bright teal and slightly glittery, I knew it was irreversible, why is there no black hair dye in this galaxy?

“I’m the new Pathfinder. Call me Sara,” this is not the time to argue about nepotism! “and I assure you, those two are on the human team.”

That Wells guy she’s got with her – babydaddy? – is staring slack-jawed at Jaal, who’s trying to look nonthreatening. Peebee shoves Kennedy and her swivel chair right out of the way and starts jabbing the console herself.

“Defence turrets!” Kennedy snaps at Peebee. “They’ve iced over too, but if we can just get them thawed – we’d have to go outside the shuttle to get to them –”

Well, I assume Kennedy’s not volunteering? She’s in no shape to fight or run. Baby must be due any minute now. She looks like she ate a planet.

“Genitalia of all parasitized excrement!” yells Peebee. At least that’s how it translates. “Never mind iced over, it’s cracked right through!”

“Right,” I commanded. “We defend Kennedy’s shuttle. Peebee, fix the turrets. Jaal, we’ll cover Peebee.” Leave Wells out of it. He has a gun but he’s holding it wrong. “If we need to retreat we can hold them off in the doorway. Kennedy. Give me the airlock controls.” Of course, that means if we die the enemy can take them off my corpse, but if we die, a closed airlock won’t protect Kennedy and Wells for long. “Kennedy?” She’s gone even greyer and she’s not focussing on me. Her mouth’s half open. She makes a small pained noise.

Oh _shit_ no! Not now!

“Wells,” I command, “see to Kennedy! I assume you’re prepared for this?”

The whites are showing all the way round his eyes. “Been going on for hours…” he whispers, “but didn’t seem to hurt much till now, so we thought we had time… waters broke hours ago…”

Right. That explains why Kennedy’s in a dressing gown.

Kennedy slides out of her chair, lands on all fours and starts to vomit.

_Why is your pulse spiking at this point, Sara?_ Sam asks.

Peebee shoves her helmet back on in a hurry and turns away. Jaal’s checking his grenades.

“ _Door controls!_ ” I demand. “Wells! Give me the door controls!”

Kennedy collapses to her knees, fumbles in her dressing gown pocket, holds out the remote airlock controls, turns away from me and keeps vomiting.

Eww. The controls are _wet._ Glad my gloves are waterproof.

“Right!” I command as we march into the airlock. “We fix those turrets! _Wells, see to Kennedy!_ ” Close the inner door and hope Wells knows what he’s doing.

I open the outer airlock – _fuck_ that air’s cold – Peebee sets up a biotic barrier and the two of us form up behind her.

I did a very extensive first aid course before they froze me. It covered human birth and _all the things that can go wrong,_ abruptions, haemorrhage, the baby getting stuck and running out of oxygen or just dying halfway through –

_Obstetric complications are unusual when the mother is young and in good health, if that is your concern,_ Sam points out. _In a case of malpresentation, we are only a few hours away from Dr T’Perro._

“Alien trauma surgeon’s definitely better than nothing,” I tell him as we march out into the snow.

And the course covered asari births, which are more alien than you’d assume and pretty straightforward, and turians, who get it over with in an hour and don’t usually need medical assistance, and it’s extraordinary what can go wrong with female salarians, you thought they had it easy, no! They do not have it easy!

Well, I’ve got bigger problems right now, and so does Kennedy.

Close the door behind me, stuff the dripping controls in my pocket, and we dash to the left defence turret. No shots bounce off our biotic barrier, but that old truck’s already pulled up and the Roekaar are scrambling out. Peebee bounds up to the turret and sits hunched on top of it. Our protective barrier flickers and dies as she turns her concentration to the machinery.

Draw my Widow. Make sure my shotgun’s ready, because this could turn to close quarters.

About ten Roekaar – _eleven,_ Sam corrects. Scavenged armour and Molotov cocktails and scavenged laser rifles. Only four of them have helmets and that boy on the left hasn’t hit puberty yet.

They stand still and wide-eyed, nerving themselves up to fire at people who don’t even look like kett.

Jaal strides forwards and raises his hands over his head. “I am Jaal ama Darav!” he roars. “Are you going to shoot kett, or are you going to shoot me?” Stands there tall and proud and exposed.

_That’s_ why he always volunteers for Roekaar missions. Half the time, that move works.

I’ve got my rifle ready, for the times it doesn’t. I hate watching him do this.

“ _Traitor,”_ spits the teenage girl who seems to be leading the Roekaar, and _she’s going to shoot him I won’t be fast enough_ –

The energy bolt sizzles off his shields. He doesn’t flinch.

_Jaal. Don’t die, please, don’t die, please. Not you too._

“You’d rather fight _me,”_ Jaal goes on as the girl keeps him in her sights, “who fought for Evfra, who saved the Moshae, than fight the _kett?”_

Her lips peel back from her teeth.

She shoots him again. His shields absorb it, he ducks and rolls through the snow and comes up behind the shuttle leg with that kett rifle in his hand and _finally he nods to me_ and I put a bullet through the girl’s left eye. She crumples and the snow turns blue. Sorry, miss, better you than Jaal.

I shoot the grown man behind her. Good centre of mass shot. He’s not dead but he falls to his knees and starts screaming.

Now Jaal’s defending himself, I can focus on combat and access that calm place where people are targets. The screaming’s no more than an aggravation as the kett shuttle slams into the ground, melting snow all round it. Most of the Roekaar dash towards it howling war cries. Me and Jaal start to carefully shoot kett as they march out.

Once you know what the Chosen are, you can recognise the way they move and imagine what their faces looked like before the bone armour. Does the flesh round the face fall off, or do they prune it away?

“Hah! Got it!” Peebee yells above us. With an ear-splitting rattle the shuttle turret joins the firefight. Three Chosen soldiers just vanish, obliterated into yellow-green smears, and one of the Anointed is pouring blood and trying to stand up using their gun as a crutch.

Peebee glides down trailing blue fire like some warrior angel, lands crouched behind us, and that one Roekaar who was shooting at us rather than the kett sails through the air and smashes into the side of his truck. He leaves a big dent. He doesn’t get up.

“Barrier up, Peebee,” I call, and she calls up a blue-glowing shield round all of us as eight screaming Roekaar crash into about twenty kett.

_Twenty-three, three Anointed and twenty – wait, eighteen – Chosen,_ Sam corrects.

Peebee might not have Cora or Scott’s training or Cora’s raw power, but she’s damn good with a shield. Kett lasers and Roekaar lasers and someone’s grenade bounce right off it, but me and Jaal can shoot through it like it’s not there.

Aim for the kett when you can – they might have been someone once but they sure aren’t now. Go for the eyes. Armpits or groin, because there are arteries in there if you blow a big enough hole. A shot to the knee might not kill them but it’ll drop them.

Roekaar are soft. Scavenged armour, soft meat. Still, if they shoot at me or mine, I’ll shoot back.

We edge around the shuttle, moving carefully in the melting snow. I’m still ice cold, even in the middle of a firefight. “Sam, can you turn up my metabolism till we get back inside?”

_Certainly, Sara._

There’s a lot of kett fire coming our way. Peebee’s gasping for breath and the barrier’s starting to flicker.

Jaal burns a neat hole through the nearest Anointed, who looks appalled, grabs at their chest, and curls into a little ball in the snow.

I shoot at the next Anointed a few times, watch their shields flicker and die, and blow their head off.

“Barrier down, Peebee!” Can’t have her exhausting herself yet, and our shields are full capacity. We’re nearly at the other turret. “Can you get to the right turret from here?”

“No probs, boss!” she calls, and leaps to the turret. She hunkers down and three Chosen turn towards her and Jaal takes them down one after the other.

That’s when the Roekaar break and run. They’ve got enough decency left to drag their wounded back to the truck, the man I shot and a girl missing most of her right leg. The man who Peebee threw is still lying next to the truck and they lift him in too – I think he’s dead, but you can’t blame them for trying – and they speed away in a flurry of snow, with one not-very-bright Chosen trying to shoot out their tires until the last Anointed orders them to _stop that!_

The left turret blows Tire Shooting Idiot and their boss in half. Leaderless, then, and only eight of them left. They start charging and we duck behind the nearest shuttle leg. Shotgun time.

Jaal drops one, and I take out most of the shields on another one before the left turret obliterates them.

The right turret rattles to life and there’s three Chosen in shreds – four – Jaal’s grenade mangles another one, one left and _they’re still charging_ and shooting and their shields aren’t going down, they’ve got more shields left than me, get behind the shuttle leg quick –

Peebee’s biotic field takes the last kett round the foot and yanks. They land face down in the snow and she shoots them in the back.

The turrets stop firing.

“Made it!” Peebee yells, and thuds down behind us. There’s a few kett still moving, so I put them out of my misery with the shotgun before I take a proper look round.

That’s _not_ what they normally mean by “yellow snow”.

Not too much blue. There’s three angara dead. Pretty sure the kett killed the boy, but the way the older woman’s guts are blown out, yeah, that was a grenade.

_She directed 48% of her fire at you, while fighting kett,_ Sam whispers in my head, _and 36% at Pelessaria._

Sorry, Jaal.

“ _Help me!”_ Wells screams, and we all snap around.

The shuttle door’s open a crack, just enough for a human male to squeeze through, and Harlan Wells is sitting in melting pink snow in front of it, staring in baffled horror at his right arm. Which now ends just below the elbow.

Most Roekaar guns vapourise flesh painlessly. I’ve seen people die without noticing they’d been hit.

We all make a dash for him. I’m the one with the human first aid training so I’m the one who drops to my knees in the cold cold snow – he’ll freeze, he’s just wearing jeans and a sweater – and starts a very quick examination.

Looks like the arteries spasmed shut before he could bleed much. There’s no swelling around the oozing stump, no signs of internal bleeding, and his heart’s beating much too fast but his blood pressure’s also through the roof. We can move him into the shuttle before we do anything urgent.

“You hit anywhere else?” I demand.

“I… I don’t know…” he gasps. “You have to help Zoe!”

Suddenly my heart’s beating as hard as his. Feels like it’s going to break right out of my chest. Sam’s trick with my metabolism isn’t helping.

What do I do, what am I supposed to do, _she’ll bleed to death in minutes and it’ll be all my fault –_ Where’s Dad when I need him? Mum? Lexi? Anyone?

“Has something bad happened to Zoe?” Jaal asks Wells. He doesn’t answer.

“I’ll handle it,” I command. “I’ve got Sam. You know what to do, right, Sam?”

_I have a theoretical familiarity with human obstetrics._ I don’t feel much better, but my heart rate’s back to normal. I think Sam fixed it.

“Jaal, get in the shuttle and patch up Wells,” I order. He’s still vague on human anatomy, but he’s seen a hell of a lot of field medic experience and he knows how to _not panic_ – unlike Peebee, who’s protecting her crotch with both hands and a small force field. “Peebee, stay outside.” Look at her relax when I say that! “Keep watch for hostiles.”

I open the outer airlock and scoop up Wells in my arms. He weighs more than me, but I had the Alliance’s best strength enhancements when I was a soldier, and Sam’s done better since then.

“This should be straightforward,” Jaal says calmly, taking off his helmet beside me. He’s head and shoulders taller than me and broader and more muscled than anything human, and his eyes are bright. “Just a birth, after all, and Sam will be very helpful.”

He obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but I still feel better.

“Sam?” I ask. “Just take my hands. Take over for me.”

_Certainly, Sara._

My heart slams against my ribs again, and he calms it again as the inner door opens. I’m breathing slower. I think he’s reset my metabolism to normal but _that story about the breech birth and the head torn off, why did they tell us that?_

But it’s blissfully warm in the shuttle and Sam won’t let me shake visibly. I leave Wells on the floor for Jaal and I turn back to Kennedy.

She’s naked, dressing gown tossed aside, and she’s still on all fours, eyes squeezed tightly shut, fighting for breath. Sam kneels my body behind her and makes my mouth say “Dr Zoe Jean Kennedy, I will help.” She doesn’t respond. Her mind’s gone away somewhere.

I can see a sliver of head.

_Support the head as it emerges,_ Sam tells me, _to prevent tearing._ My hands take off my armoured gloves and clip them to my belt and I don’t want to put my bare hands there but there’s nothing to cover them with – hot and sticky and the stink of blood and sweat, and I can feel the little flexible skull deforming as the bone plates slide over each other, sliding closer and closer to me –

“It will be all right,” Jaal says softly. “I am very sorry, but I have many friends who have only one hand, and they find ways – No, wait. I forgot, your people can make you a cybernetic hand when the wound heals, that will be nearly as good as the old one. My friends will have cybernetic prosthetics too, as soon as we design cybernetics that fit their nervous systems. Am I hurting you, Harlan Wells?”

Wells doesn’t speak.

Kennedy hisses, not a human sound, and my hands support the little head as it comes free in a trickle of hot blood. Face pointing up, eyes half open, the skin grayish blue.

_Cyanosis is entirely normal at this point, Sara._

Jaal’s started singing, soft and deep and rich. It’s in his mother’s language, only every third or fourth word translating, and I think it’s a lullaby.

Kennedy sucks in air and makes a low, horrible sound, and my hands tug the tiny head a little to the left then a little to the right as the shoulders slide free. The rest of the baby slithers limp and grey into my arms, blood and white grease everywhere, and my heart starts to fight my chest again until the baby sucks in air and shrieks piercingly and starts to turn pink.

Kennedy’s on her knees now and her eyes are open.

“Towel, Sara!” Jaal says happily, and – why’s he giving me a towel? Oh of course, to dry off the baby so it stays warm. Sam takes the towel and it’s a good thing he’s puppeting my hands because the baby is still horrifyingly limp.

_Normal motor skills for the developmental stage, Sara._

“Nice job!” Kennedy shouts over the wailing. She’s grinning. “Wasn’t looking forward to getting through that on my own! Now hand me David and you’d better help out with the placenta, you’ve got a better angle than me.”

This is the dangerous part. This is when the haemorrhages happen, when fit young women bleed out in a couple of minutes. Oxytocin injections reduce the bleeding risk, but of course there’s none of that in my medkit – oh. Wait. Kennedy has a syringe. She’s just injected it into her own thigh. “Misoprostol suppositories are right there, if anything goes wrong,” Kennedy says, gingerly lowering herself to lie on her back with her legs spread. She looks _exhilarated._ She holds out her arms for the towel-wrapped baby and Sam hands him over and he stops screaming and starts calmly looking around.

_This amount of blood loss is entirely normal, Sara._

It’s all over the knees of my armour. Dad’s armour.

My left hand grasps the umbilical cord, hot and slimy and rubbery, and my right hand presses into Kennedy’s belly and finds the hard lump of the uterus pulling back down below her navel, and I tug gently and… aargh! That’s huge! It looks like a horrible mutant liver!

“Are those _gills?”_ says Jaal. What the fuck, Jaal.

_Placenta appears intact, Sara, with no retained parts. Check for vulval tearing._

Sam’s giving me back my hands. I use them to rummage through Dr Kennedy’s private parts. She yelps in pain but everything looks intact, apart from a few torn-off patches of skin.

“That’ll heal,” I say with my own voice, “no problem.” Wonder if she’d have been fine on her own. Probably, but I think I did pretty well there! Well, Sam did.

Kennedy’s tying off the umbilical cord. “Where are the scissors?” she says.

“Scissors?” yelps Jaal. “Do human gills need to be cut off?” He’s staring shamelessly, with the same “fascinating alien did an intergalactic biology thing!” face that he uses for biotic powers, Kallo’s habit of using his own thigh as a comfy pillow, and the time Peebee got Vetra to chase a cat toy. Wells’ arm now has a tourniquet in case the arteries open up, and it’s in a rough sling. He still has that blank stare but he doesn’t look any worse.

“Jaal,” I point out, fishing the surgical scissors out of my medkit. “Humans do not have gills. Ever. What are you talking about?”

“The meat blob! That she’s cutting off!” He sounds a little horrified.

Kennedy shoves away the “meat blob”, stands up – rather bowlegged and a bit of blood trickles down her thighs, but steady enough – grabs a few more towels, and wraps the baby up again so only his face is visible. “Is the drive core really cracked?”

I’ve still got my helmet on. I’m wearing full armour, except my hands are bare and dripping with blood and white grease. She can’t see how utterly, utterly pissed off I am that this was necessary. “If Peebee says it’s not fixable, it’s not fixable. You’ll have to leave the shuttle and come with us.”

“Peebee? Is that your Huntress?”

“She’s a roboticist.” Our Huntress is furry and bleeds red, and isn’t here, the lucky bugger.

I was half expecting Kennedy to kick up a fuss about abandoning her home and possessions, but she just nods. “Thanks. Harlan? _What happened to Harlan?”_

“’M fine,” he mumbles. Looks like Jaal gave him the good painkillers.

“The Roekaar shot his hand off,” Jaal explains. “He is stable and not otherwise injured. He will get a new hand on the Nexus.”

Well, yeah, that about sums it up. Apart from questions like _why was he outside in the first place?_ I’m guessing he panicked worse than me and ran looking for help, someone, anyone, help? He’s lucky the Roekaar didn’t get his head!

Kennedy must be thinking the same, from the way her eyebrows draw down. “I put a lot of trust in you, Harlan, and your supposed ability to keep a clear head in a crisis.”

He slurs something.

Jien Garson put a lot of trust in both of them and their basic, elementary common sense. I’m looking forward to lining up Addison, Tann, ooh I’m sure Kesh has a fascinating perspective on this, and Kandros if he’s up for it, and having them tell Wells and Kennedy exactly what they think of this clusterfuck.

Accidents happen. My parents never wanted children. Sid Nyx was conceived after her parents’ divorce. Unless Nexus gossip is misleading me, Addison very sensibly had a pregnancy terminated just before Kennedy ran off, and she’s been upset about it ever since. This was extremely un-accidental. This involved people cutting out their own contraceptive implants, because waiting a year or two till we have a stable food supply is so, so unfair.

 “Right.” Time for me to take back command. “Peebee hasn’t mentioned any returning hostiles. Get some clothes on, Kennedy, and wrap that baby up as warm as you can, and we’ll all have to fit in the Nomad.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Nomad was made to hold three humans or three asari. Or three slightly folded-up salarians (very compressible people). Vetra just had to program in some carapace-appropriate recliner and headrest settings and put up with limited legroom.

Ever notice how all four Council species are the same width? Drack and Jaal, not so much. Gil and Kallo had to replace the whole back seat, twice, before we could fit both of them in full armour.

Good thing we didn’t bring Drack. Pity we’re still teaching Jaal to drive Nexus vehicles, because it’d be a lot easier to have him drive and cram me into the back with Peebee, Wells, Kennedy and baby. Kennedy wound up in Jaal’s lap, holding the baby. Wells was sandwiched between Jaal’s armour and Peebee and too stoned to complain. Jaal wasn’t about to take off his armour in case we had to get out and fight. Obviously nobody except me got a seatbelt.

We left behind three dead angara, and quite a lot of kett, for the snow to cover.

“No time for proper death rites,” I told Jaal. “Kennedy and Wells need a real doctor ASAP, and Roekaar or kett might come back with reinforcements.”

“I agree entirely.” He carries the sacred plants in his armour, these days, and prays over every dead Roekaar he can. More recently he’s started doing the same for the kett. No knowing who they used to be. No knowing what they did with his father.

I start the Nomad, driving as gently as possible. Jaal puts his arms around Kennedy to steady her, shuts his eyes, and starts the familiar lilting chant. That language is far older than Shelesh and only snatches of it come through the translator.

…so young for death, fallen like a flower…

…unjust cause, unjust, unjust cause, but such courage…

…my fine enemy gleaming bright, I beg you to choose better masters, rise again wiser, rise again…

“ _Is he praying for those terrorists?”_ Kennedy yelps at Peebee.

“Well, of course he is?”

The chanting cuts off. “Zoe Jean Kennedy,” Jaal growls. “They were someone’s babies once, every one of them. Is that an adequate explanation for you?”

“But they –”

“I have become much more religious since I went to war against the Roekaar! It gives me some comfort, to believe that they can have second chances. That a boy who died when he was fifteen, meaning to defend his family, will not be dead and fifteen forever. Is that understood?”

She can’t get away. She’s in his lap.

“Defend their families?” Kennedy yelps. “The things they tried to do, and we were just trying to stake a claim to some land –”

“ _Stake a claim?_ ” he booms. “Voeld is claimed! I believe _civilised people,_ when they want land that is _already owned,_ will negotiate a price and pay for it! Payment is accepted in military aid or futuristic technology! Whereas it is _animals_ that den in my house and snap at me when I walk in!”

“It looked empty!”

“Or have you decided that we angara are dangerous animals, to be cleared out of the way? Would you call me a man or an animal, Zoe Jean Kennedy?”

Don’t know if that’s the best phrasing, Jaal – the shape of his face and the rumble of his voice and the skin halo – she can’t possibly be thinking anything other than _lion, King of Beasts._

But she’s in his lap with nowhere to run, and she apparently has enough common sense to say “A man. Definitely a man.” Doesn’t sound scared either, which is impressive in an idiotic way.

“ _Very well._ Then, if I am a man as you are a woman, we can leave aside the past and be friends. Would you like some water?”

There’s a pause as she adjusts to the conversational swerve. “ _Definitely.”_

She gulps the water while he finishes praying. Everything’s quiet for a while. The Nomad’s making decent speed over the white hills and valleys and there are no hostiles in sight.

“What are you doing?” Jaal says. “Oh wait – mammary glands. Such a clever evolutionary adaptation!”

“Um… yeah. Do you have to stare like that?”

“Sorry. He is… enormous. You must be exhausted!”

That reminds me. “Jaal? I don’t have gills. Kallo hasn’t had gills for a while. You don’t have gills, do you?” You’d think it would have come up, but maybe they’re vestigial?

“Well, obviously not _now._ They fell off at birth.”

“You were born with gills?” Peebee mumbles through her ration bar.

“Well and how did you breathe inside your mother? We are talking about a pool of oxygenated nutrient liquid, surely?”

“Er… not exactly,” Peebee says. “Um, it sort of hooks into, um…”

“I’ll explain when we get back,” I told him. “Or find you a medical textbook. Wait. Are those… flappy skin bits on your chest… leftover gill bits?”

“Well, obviously? Wait. That evidently is not obvious. Yes.”

“Kennedy?” Peebee says. “Want some ration bar?”

“It’s purple.”

The Nexus code their rations by blood colour. Not sure how they’ll handle that if they start making angaran rations, but it works for now.

“Near enough,” Peebee says. “Definitely no eezo in it! It’s only the seaweed flavour that’s toxic to humans, the berry flavour’s fine. Want some? Not you, Wells, you’ll need surgery as soon as possible.”

 “Yes please,” Kennedy says gratefully. Wells mumbles something.

Silence, for a while.

“So,” Jaal says. “Your species has the same… parts?”

“We do not!” Peebee yelps.

“With more tentacles, obviously, but I understand the basic principles are similar? Apart from the unusual means of DNA exchange?”

“We don’t try to stuff babies through a solid bone ring! Or through the azure bits! Extra hole! Sealed shut until needed! Up here!” It’s a pity I can’t see her hand gestures – I’m guessing vehement finger jabbing just above the pubic bone?

“Ah!” Jaal says. “Like normal people!”

“Depends on your definition of normal, Jaal,” I point out.

There’s a pause. The baby cries briefly and then shuts up.

“Kennedy?” Jaal says. “Is there supposed to be… quite so much blood?”

_Ohshit ohshit ohshit_ wait, we brought the misoprostol suppositories, those’ll stop a haemorrhage –

“Looks pretty normal,” Kennedy says.

I think she knows what she’s talking about? I hope she knows what she’s talking about!

“Because,” he adds, “my armour is not waterproof. I now have alien blood all over my long underwear. Which was previously white.”

“Um. Sorry. I’ll buy you a new pair?”

“My warmest, most comfortable long underwear. _Martyred.”_

Peebee giggles. “You could say it… died for the cause. We didn’t even bring Vetra.”

“What?” yelps Kennedy. “There’s a _what_ on the Human Pathfinder Team?”

“Well,” Peebee explains, “we only had one Pathfinder team till recently, and she doesn’t really get along with old Rix, and she’s not Hierarchy anyway. So it makes perfect sense.”

“She’s not… who’s Rix… why’s it still called the Human Team, are you trying to collect the full set here? Did you recruit a krogan while you were at it?”

“Yep! Nice old man. Very old! He was in the Rebellion!”

I think Kennedy takes that as a joke.

Drack can probably support Wells emotionally, while he gets used to his new disability?

Who gets the job of bringing Kennedy up to date on Nexus events? I vote not me!

In the back, Wells starts to sob quietly.

“Don’t cry,” Peebee says, “we’ll make you a new hand, one of the awesome chrome ones with the lights, make it look like Remnant,” and then she realises this isn’t the most helpful comment and just puts an arm round him.

Jaal’s praying again, under his breath. _Grant me forgiveness. Grant that, where there are no good choices, I make the best choice. Grant that they live better when they live again._

He has a whole ritual by now, for recovering from Roekaar missions. Cleanse himself with sacred oil. Cuddle everyone who volunteers – and once you sort out certain boundary issues, he makes the perfect XXXL teddy bear. Grab a glass of the best alcohol or tavum or bhang we have, toast their courage, sing Resistance songs. I know more Resistance songs now than Alliance songs. Go to bed with whoever’s interested (usually Peebee) and do things focussed around cuddling. Wake up the next day and get on with his life.

He wouldn’t have lived this long if he couldn’t work round mental scar tissue. He made his first kill at eleven – and no, angara don’t mature any faster than humans. His uncle had him play the little lost boy and act as bait. By the time the Resistance swept to his rescue, he’d put his hunting knife through a Chosen soldier’s armpit and into the artery. He doesn’t hold it against the uncle. Desperate times call for desperate measures, he says.

Yeah, I don’t think I can hold it against the uncle either.

Roekaar, though – that woman he killed in my defense – that’s not the same thing as hunting kett, not at all.

Me and Scott killed a lot of people for the Alliance. I meant to keep track of the numbers, thinking they deserved that much respect, but – how many people were on that ship? That pirate will probably die from those wounds, but his friends dragged him away, and maybe there’s decent medical care nearby?

Mostly we killed pirates, though, or Batarian Hegemony troops, or Hegemony troops disguised as pirates. Half of them chose to live in a world where the person with the most firepower makes the rules. When people like that try to murder a bunch of farmers and steal their children, it’s easy to shoot them through the head and call it vermin control. And the ones who were definitely Khar’Shan’s soldiers – well, I’m sure they were taught from birth that humans are evil monsters undeserving of life, I’m sure half of them joined the army to avoid slavery or so their families could eat, I’m sure their relatives would be liquidated if they deserted. But all the same, if they truly thought they were saving their children from vivisection when they went to war against archaeology professors… they’d have to be a lot better at self-delusion than the Roekaar.

Back with the Alliance, most of the people I killed were batarian. It really is easier to fight people who don’t look like you. You feel less like you’re shooting someone’s kid sister when she has too many eyes and a face like a mutant bulldog.

And the humans I shot… we didn’t have a common enemy. Not the kind of enemy that Jaal shares with the Roekaar.

I signed up to fight pirates and enemy soldiers. I wasn’t expecting the enemy to be a gang of scared kids named after a fairy tale.

Not that there’s a choice, most of the time. Better that they die than me. Better them than Jaal.

Maybe I should learn Jaal’s prayers. I’ve never had a religion and I don’t think I’m looking for one, but it’d be good to pray with him.


	3. Chapter 3

We made it back to the Tempest without any more terrorism, disturbing Earth biology, or martyred underwear. Lexi took over care of Wells, Kennedy and the damn baby while we stampeded for the shower. I’ve got blood on the Nomad’s steering wheel plenty of times, but never _vernix casoea_ (white greasy baby coating) before. We really owe Gil for making the shower big enough for a few people and adding unlimited hot water.

By the time we got ourselves and our armour clean, Kennedy and the baby had been set up in a soundproof storeroom, Wells was in surgery, and Suvi was piloting the Tempest towards the Nexus while Kallo shrieked at Kennedy about irresponsible reproduction (somehow he’d gotten onto the Krogan Rebellion…), so we sat on the couch and started singing.

We quickly went from “drink tavum and sing Resistance songs” to “Jaal and Peebee try to sing love duets from Fleet and Flotilla, discover much of it requires a several-octave vocal range and two sets of vocal cords, and recruit nearest actual turian to help” to “Peebee and Vetra sing obscene songs insulting Batarian Hegemony officials, in beautiful harmony.”

We might have been a bit enthusiastic with the tavum. Jaal’s taken off his shirt and wrapped it round his head like Shalei’s veil. Peebee’s draped across him. Vetra – who’s drinking terrible Kadara beer because tavum doesn’t affect her brain chemistry – is sitting on the arm of the couch with her icy cold bare feet in my lap.

“ _So,”_ Jaal says, over the disturbing chorus of _All The_ _Balaks’ Varren_. “That explains the matching abdominal scarring! I had wondered if you… ritually scarified yourselves? But it seemed like such an odd place to decorate!”

“It’s called a navel, Jaal.”

 “VETRA!” he yells. She stops singing and stares at him. “Why do you not have this scar?”

Peebee keeps singing the damn varren song, loudly.

Vetra yanks her shirt up to the bottom of her chest plate. “Sure I do – it just healed better! See?”

Finely scaled brown skin, clinging so tightly to her muscles that it’s a bit weird… and yes, now that she mentions it, there’s a faint pale mark in the middle. I always assumed that was surgical.

“You do not have mammary glands!”

She shrugs and pulls her shirt back down. “Many things don’t!”

“I have mammary glands!” Peebee yells, and flings off her shirt.

Quite aesthetically pleasing ones, too! A bit more hemispherical and self-supporting than Earth monkeys can manage naturally! I think that’s good!

Vetra sighs, slides off the couch, grabs the tavum box, and sets it on the shelf no one else can reach. “Jaal. Is this stuff stronger than usual?”

“Um. Maybe? Was that not why you travelled to a distant galaxy, to enjoy recreational drugs from beyond the stars?”

She glares at her bowl of beer and laps up a bit more, splashily. “When _do_ I get intergalactic recreational drugs? I can brew better beer than this myself!”

“Oi! Mine!” Peebee yells, waving her arms. “I need to disinfect my brain after today! You are _not_ my mum!” The tavum box glows blue and starts to wobble vaguely through the air. Vetra leaps, snatches it, and puts it back on the shelf.  

“Till you sober up,” Vetra declares, “I’m your new mommy.”

“That’s fair. You teach me good songs. My real mum never taught me songs like that!”

I’m a little vague on Peebee’s childhood, but apparently two sweet old ladies and one sweet young elcor wanted a dear little girl who’d enjoy frilly dresses and classical music. Boy, did they get a shock.

Not that I’d know much about parenting. Dad, well, he was a good CO. We were damn fine soldiers and he was proud of that. Mum tried – we were never quite as interesting as her research, but at least we took second place. She made sure we went to good schools and ate well, and that’s more than a lot of people get.

I’ve seen Vetra cheer herself up by counting rolls of toilet paper and pointing out that we have enough, we won’t run out, and when we start running low we can buy more. She stores the dextro rations in her cabin.

We visited Mum when she was dying, as often as we could. It was awkward. She kept losing bowel control. Her mind was fine, though, so we could always cheer her up and remind her there was a world outside the hospital, take her through the latest Prothean discoveries, keep her up on which professors were feuding or shagging or both...

Meanwhile Dad was too busy to show up, because he was _certain_ his latest brilliant plan would fix her. Maybe he made her die a bit slower. He sent lovely flowers.

Me and Scott were rising stars with the Alliance, headed straight for ICT training, and we were good at that, _we were damn good at that,_ and then Dad wrecked that too. On Monday, ancient Hierarchy generals were calling us _a credit to your species_ , then by Wednesday we were turd golems. We should have quit a lot faster after they dumped us on that mass relay. There’s not much career advancement potential in working private security for archaeologists, but you feel like you deserve to exist, and the nicer archaeologists share their grub jerky and brag about their nephews. _Look how well Yithya can make bobbin lace! Akha’s already got the hang of basic arithmetic while he still has a tail!_ That’s not praise, but it’s an admission that you’re a preson.

Dad was sympathetic. He approved, or never disapproved, of our vague plans to go through university and become Prothean experts ourselves. But he never actually apologised for anything. Tried to make it up to us with the Initiative, but apparently apologies were for lesser men.

We always knew he was proud of us.

Simpler to forget about Alec Ryder the man. That’s not what he was good at. Easier to remember the symbol, the martyr, the man who gave up his helmet at the end (it wasn’t my fault, _it wasn’t.)_ When they want me to cry prettily for the cameras, I think about Mum propped up on that anti-bedsore mattress

(she was enough of a celebrity that half the Citadel sent flowers, and the piles of flowers must have weighed more than she did…)

Or Scott

(he never moves, like an object, tubes down his throat and up his dick and little electric shocks going through him so his muscles won’t shrivel up, and they say he’ll wake up but not for months yet…)

Or Macen Barro

( _but spirits, it’s beautiful,_ he said, and then he was gone too.)

Macen always joked that he’d steal us for his team, “but then I’d have to buy weird pyjak kibble and clean up shed fur.” After the third pyjak comment, Scott started coming up with inappropriate poultry jokes. Macen researched Earth wildlife and started telling poultry jokes as well.

He kept telling us we’d regret turning our hair green. Then he gave up and started buying us floral hairclips “since you’re disguising yourself as shrubbery.” We made him take the hairclips back and _they turned up in his locker on the Natanus,_ I think Pathfinder Rix has them now, maybe I should wear them…

Me and Scott danced with Macen at the pre-launch party. Then he said he’d meet us in the new galaxy and grabbed Rix, who muttered something about propriety and dragged him into a side room. That was his goodbye to us.

_He was translated into starlight,_ people keep saying, _the stars took him,_ like they’re pretending it didn’t hurt.

_I can’t do this,_ Rix said on the torn-open ark. Well, he’s doing it.

When I found out how Dad died – well, I’m glad to be alive. I’ve never wanted to die, not even on that mass relay. But I thought he’d made a stupid, irresponsible choice to save one little girl when the Initiative needed their Pathfinder. Look at all the shit I’ve fucked up – of course I’ve fantasised about Dad keeping his helmet and saving everyone else. Scott would have missed me when he woke up, but he’d cope.

But, really, Dad was a soldier and an explorer and never quite grasped the concept of diplomacy, and I’m starting to think I’m doing a better job than he could have. Look at New Tuchanka! I muddled my way through that mess of bizarre interspecies diplomacy, I accidentally insulted everyone, they made me fight three Fiends, but it ended with an alliance and some sweet trade deals! You think Alec Ryder could have coped with Overlord Morda?

And you know… Alec Ryder went through the Charon relay without knowing what was on the other side. Alec Ryder made N7. Alec Ryder fought terrifying unknown aliens (sure, it was a stupid little war caused by a few trigger-happy meatheads, but how was he supposed to know that?)

“But!” I tell Jaal. “Alec Ryder never delivered a baby!”

He blinks. “Did he not?”

“Not that I know of! Neither did I, really, Sam did it, but – go me! And go Sam!”

“He had no obstetric experience with any sapient or non-sapient species,” Sam says from the wall. “Hmm. I suspect Doctor Kennedy and young David did not truly require our assistance… Still. Go me.”

Vetra grins, perches herself back on the couch arm, and squeezes my shoulder. “We are _winning_ here.” She puts her big scaly feet back in my lap. They’re still cold.

Should warm them up. My hands aren’t big enough for the purpose, but I can get them round some of the, uh, toe bit, particularly if I squeeze her toes together… Does this count as making out? Am I going to regret this when I sober up? Nah.

She’s not complaining, anyway. She’s stroking my hair like it’s a cat’s fur and purring like a giant cat.

Pretty sure she likes the colour. Hey, Director Addison, if you want to be judgemental about me having sparkly green hair, you should cut down on the magenta eyeshadow! My hair attracts sexy aliens! Can your eyeshadow do that?

My hair matches Scott’s. He keeps his hair long, and so far I’ve convinced the doctors not to chop it off, so most of it’s still standard East Asian glossy black… but it’s been growing while he lies there, and now the top few inches are as green as mine…

“Scott, now,” I tell Vetra. “ _Miss_ him. He’s going to be so much better at this than me, when he wakes up.”

“ _No he’s not!”_ Peebee yells. Yeah, she’s still topless and she’s still draped bonelessly over some of Jaal and some of the couch. “No one’s better than you! At anything!”

Jaal sighs. “I apologise for the tavum. My friend Varua grew it, and _normally_ he can manage a consistent strength…” He stops doing culturally insensitive things with his shirt and puts it back on, vainly trying to raise the room’s average dignity.

“Everyone loves Scott,” I point out. “Scott got biotic powers and I didn’t, how unfair is that? I’m just good at shooting things to compensate! Scott was covered in pretty boys while I was covered in salarian archaeologists who wanted to try kissing!”

I’m still a virgin… well, unless you count the Liam couch incident, but I got nervous and kept my pants on, I mean, he’s sweet but he’s awfully young for his age… I wasn’t trying to save myself for marriage or anything, I’m just unlucky!

Killed more people than I can count, just saw _way_ too much vagina, and I’m still a virgin.

Vetra tilts her head and stares at me with one vivid yellow eye. “Salarians?”

“Well, it happened twice, but they were both very sweet and cute and both of them ran screaming when I politely suggested maybe I could take my pants off…” Man, salarians have pretty eyes. And they’re just so bendy, and warm to cuddle, and they smell kind of strongly of that weird eucalyptus-pine-butter pheromone thing and _I can smell it faintly right now, I think Kallo scent-marked the couch again, he starts rubbing his wrists all over the ship whenever Gil upsets him, Gil never notices,_ but it’s a nice smell.

Vetra ruffles up my hair and leans a bit closer. “Hey. Bet I can kiss you better than either of them.”

Not a human beauty at all – she’s elongated and wasp-waisted like a greyhound, her face all sculpted angles, all the cushioning hidden under her carapace. Armoured skin and wiry muscle and spiky, jutting hip bones. Her eyes are so bright – hunter’s eyes that don’t blink or look away.

Claws long and sharp as a tiger’s, and they fold backward into her fingers like a tiger’s claws, but you can’t forget they’re there.

“Wait. How? Ah, generally kissing someone requires lips?” _Absolutely,_ but her mouth’s all stiff leather and the fangs are a bit worrying.

She grins and stands up. Takes off her visor and drops it down the front of her shirt. “You’re not allergic, are you? Stand on the couch and I’ll show you.”

“Nope, no allergies, and – _stand on the couch?”_ Just because she’s more than a foot taller than me, most of which is leg, she thinks she can tell me to _stand on the couch_ rather than tilting my head back? “Vetra, I can bench-press you!”

Jaal falls about laughing.

“Yep, and I can bench-press you or pat you on the head!” She tilts her head from side to side, slow and exaggerated – either that’s instinctive behaviour or she thinks I can appreciate her jawline.

Actually the curly sculptural bits are… graceful.

But my sex drive’s a lot more interested in _hey, she’s really, really hourglass-shaped._ I’ve seen scary nineteenth-century underwear that shape. But a woman who’s supposed to look like that? Weirdly, delicately hot.

“These little furry aliens!” Jaal declares. “They are adorable! And little!”

“Oi!” Peebee declares, and chucks herself face-first at his face.

Vetra trails her soft fingertips down the side of my face. “Yes, Peebee, little non-furry space monkeys are cute too. Come on – stand on the couch or I’ll pick you up!”

“You are _not_ picking me up!” I leap to my feet, wobble slightly on the squashy old cushions, and grab her carapace for support. She’s still purring quietly and it vibrates through my hands.

Standing like this, the top of her head’s about level with my nose. Heh, she’s actually looking up at me for a change! I need to stand on more couches!

“Right,” I declare. “Kiss me.”

She takes my face in her soft bare hands, pulls me in a little – I’m having to lean on her shoulders, my balance is off for some strange reason – and runs her tongue gently around my lips. Flicks it into my mouth for a second. It’s rougher and dryer than a human tongue and she tastes of awful beer.

She leans in a bit further and nuzzles her whole face into the side of my face. Her skin’s nicely harsh like a human beard.

I should be doing something here. I know! I grab the back of her head – smooth like warm leather, faintly scale-patterned, little bone plates like pebbles – and I thoroughly lick her nose. I know she paints her dad’s stripes on her face, because face tattoos hurt a lot and are inconvenient for false identities, so _let me see if I can lick the purple off_.

“What _are_ you doing?” she rumbles, and flicks my nose with a mandible.

Nope. Purple not coming off. Waterproof skin dye. “I… don’t know?” Her face is up against mine and the bone of her cowl is kind of digging into my chest. “You… yeah, we should do this regularly. You’re awesome.”

Despite the communal shower she’s managed to keep her private parts private because everything’s retractable, so it’d be like unwrapping a present…

She laughs softly, wraps her arms round my shoulders, and wriggles a bit so we fit together more comfortably. “We’re awesome. I’m glad you agree.”

My hands drift down the back of her head, to where her carapace comes up to shield the back of her neck and the skin’s smooth and soft inside and she starts to relax against me –

“Hey!” she yelps, and slaps my hand away. “No doing that in public! Or while high!”

What? “Did I do something indecent?” Shit – she’s not upset, is she?

She’s trying to pull her head into her shell like a turtle and her pupils have gone circular, but she’s laughing and she hasn’t pulled away. “Yes! I’m getting you a guide to where you can put your hands in public and where you can put your hands in private!”

“Lexi has relevant pamphlets!” Jaal declares. “Pamphlets which recommend asari cover their… nutrient fluid dispensers… on human ships, Peebee! If I have to continually wear clothing, even to sleep, then so do you!”

“Ï think my shirt’s behind the couch,” Peebee mutters.

“Well? Use your awesome powers of space wizardry to levitate it back on!”

The shirt floats up and falls on his head.

Up this close, Vetra’s oddly un-scented. She smells like beer and fancy moisturiser and armour polish, but no sweat or musk underneath.

“Boop,” I say, and boop her nose with my nose. “You are… bird of prey, from beyond all starlight. My hawk. I’ll write better poetry when I’m sober.”

I wobble and have to grab her shoulders again. On the _outside_ this time, thank you.

She takes my face between her hands. “Think I’ll hold you to that. Let’s see if your love poetry’s as good as your pep talks!” Then she holds my face about a foot from her face, sticks out her tongue about a foot, and whacks me in the nose with it. “Boop, right?”

Too busy laughing to respond.

Scott always told me not to date turians, but I think that was based on that one sad incident in a grotty pub’s elcor toilet, with a young soldier who’d never tried aliens before and somehow didn’t realise that human skin’s fragile… it took a month for the rather distinctive toothmarks to fade, during which time Scott had to share communal showers with half our regiment… he said he got revenge by bleeding on the guy’s pale grey uniform “but it was a legit accident and he was very sorry so I hope he got the stains out _after_ he had to explain them to his CO.” Pretty sure that’s a cautionary tale about not shagging _idiots._

“… I really miss Scott,” I tell Vetra. Not much she can do, but she wraps her arms round me and pulls me in against her chest.

“Scott has an excellent prognosis,” Sam points out.

Why am I crying?

…I used to spend so much time trying to get Scott to have better taste in men, and he never listened, and I’d stock up on his favourite ice cream for when they inevitably went back to their wives or just stopped answering his calls, and he’d bounce back then do it all again…

“We’ll have matching hair,” I mumble into Vetra’s forehead. “They say his brain’ll rebuild itself as good as new and then they’ll wake him up and… we’ll have matching hair.”

She ruffles my hair and nuzzles her face into mine.

Sidera Nyx had no business being frozen on the Nexus, thirteen-year-olds aren’t essential personnel, but they wouldn’t be separated. Sid was supposed to be on the Natanus when it tore open, but that didn’t happen, that’s not what happened, and Meriweather couldn’t kill her either… _Avi Avi Avi commence stars_...

“ _A toast to Scott!”_ Jaal roars, and starts pouring spicy fruit juice into glasses. “Without tavum. We do _not_ need any more.”

I sit myself back on the couch and Vetra sits next to me, one arm slung round my shoulders and her hard, solid thigh against mine. She pulls some tissues out of one of her pockets and, yes, good idea, now my nose is running everywhere, wasn’t I supposed to have dignity?

“It’s the hair,” I tell her, and scrub at my nose. “It’s assassinated all my dignity.”

“Nah,” Peebee says, as though she’d recognise dignity if she found some in her porridge. She’s wrapped her shirt round her chest instead of putting it back on. “You’re good at the whole I’m competent, everyone listen to me thing. Despite being the size of a fat quarian and looking about forty. The hair’s a massive evolutionary upgrade. Humans are way too brown. Brown’s just meh, and that mucky pink beige arctic colour’s worse.”

“ _Pelessaria!”_ Jaal growls. “We are toasting Scott Ryder!” He hands her a glass of juice while glaring at her.

“Not my name…”

I grab the last glass and Vetra reclaims her awful beer. I raise the glass and yell “To _Scott Ryder_ , annoying kid brother! To recovering as fast as possible and…” ah, can’t keep my voice steady, what if he winds up half paralysed or epileptic or something, what’ll he do with himself then? I’m sure he’ll find something but he was such a good soldier and we’re supposed to be a team…

“ _To Scott Ryder!”_

They never even met him. He put a dreadful backless, sideless, frontless Blasto shirt in my luggage as a joke, and when he’s conscious I’m going to make him wear it _damn it Scott, why didn’t they wake you first so you could deal with all this shit, you’d have done it properly…_

“To Ellen Harlow!” I yell. “Best neuroscientist!” The way her face used to light up when she talked about her work… my eyes are just oozing unstoppably, all over Vetra’s sleeve.

It’s really good juice.

“To Alec Ryder.” That’s Sam. “Please drink for me, Sara.”

To Alec, then, because I’m the only body Sam’s got.

“To all of them,” Jaal intones, staring into his cup. “To all the lost.”

To everyone lost off the _Natanus_ and everyone snatched off the _Leusinia_. To the _Paarchero_ and the _Keelah’Seiyah,_ wherever they are – we’ll search and we’ll hope.

To Zayya te Alaan, who was his father _._

“To the young warriors who only wanted to defend their families.” He sips his juice. “I cannot speak for their wisdom, so I will toast their courage. May we all have such courage, and a great deal more wisdom.”

His voice is as strong as ever, but tears are trickling down his face.

“To courage,” I say quietly, and we drink. I won’t forget that Roekaar leader. She was skinny for Voeld, dark green skin, sharp cheekbones and lumpy nose, and she looked about sixteen. “To that girl who shot you. She deserved to grow up.”

He raises his glass and clinks it against mine.

Some of the Roekaar looked old enough to know better. They’d probably lost family to exiles. Lost kids, maybe.

“ _Akksul,”_ Jaal says. “ _Why?_ Revenge, anyone can understand, but surely he has better enemies to take revenge against? All this just for… _power?_ ”

“Power trip,” Vetra growls. “Cult stuff. Seen it before.”

His eyes squeeze shut in pain. “If you kill my old friend, Vetra Nyx? I will not hate you for it.”

She reaches across me and squeezes his shoulder. “Could come to that. Could come down to you killing him. He doesn’t seem like the type to surrender.”

He nods. His eyes are still leaking quietly. “lf… he leaves no other way… I will not hate myself. I knew I was declaring war on all the Roekaar, by joining you, and… _grant that where there are no good choices, we make the best choice._ ”

We drink.


End file.
